


Silver Lights

by shadeofwrong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeofwrong/pseuds/shadeofwrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Man starts to poke from beneath the HYDRA machine the Winter Soldier has become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Lights

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I was seeing a lot of Rumlow apologists on tumblr and stuff immediately after I started to read Brubaker's run on Captain America in the comics. Crossbones is an awful, horrible character and I wanted to create a headcanon for his interaction with the Winter Soldier that felt more IC to me. This is just some speculation of events in between scenes of the movie.

Beneath the light of the lamp on the desk in Pierce's study, multiple smudges and fingerprints ruined the shine on the barrel of the Soldier's gun. He took an old cloth from his pocket and started to polish them away, while Pierce and a new man he hadn't seen before argued in tense, hushed tones. His hands tended to the gun, but he never took his eyes off them.

“First you have me running point for Rogers, now you're telling me he's in charge?”

“That's right. I'm telling you, Rumlow, not asking. Look at your rank and you might recall a difference.”

Pierce's tone remained flippant despite the obvious anger radiating from the other man. Rumlow, a name the Soldier read earlier in briefs, one they told him to keep under close watch. A devoted member of HYDRA's strike unit force, but impulsive, vindictive, and violent.

“He's a fucking robot, Pierce. What good is he to a whole team of guys?”

“He's as much of a strategist as you or me. Just that he strategizes the way we want him to. I've given him instructions, and he'll carry them down to the rest of you. You're not following his orders, Rumlow. He doesn't move without mine.” Pierce turned to look at the Soldier. He and Rumlow finally noticed the empty stare resting on them.

“I'm sure you two will get along fine.”

The Soldier didn't respond. He hadn't been commanded to speak, nor did he have anything to say. Instead, he put his gun away and kept staring, now more intently on Rumlow.

“Look, agent, soon we'll have the helicarriers in place, and you can get back to slitting all the throats you like, understand? Maybe more than that.” Pierce smiled amicably, like a teacher settling a dispute between raucous children. Rumlow nodded begrudgingly and excused himself, leaving Pierce's home with a barely hidden disgust. Pierce watched the Soldier's eyes follow him out, and saw a distrust HYDRA didn't plant in him. That could quickly be changed.

“See, that is the sort of human error we want to correct. I need our men on the field to think straight, and I know you can inspire that.” Whether or not fear inspired them, Pierce didn't particularly care. “Remember, your primary mission is to protect the interests of HYDRA. If those appear to be threatened, you eliminate the threat. Whatever uniform it's wearing.” He leered at the Soldier, trying to gauge if his words sank in. The empty blue eyes rested on him instead of the abandoned doorway, and that seemed to be enough. “Now go.” The order barely passed his lips, and the Soldier already slipped noiselessly out the window behind him.

\---------------

When the Soldier placed Rumlow's team on backup for their pursuit of Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff, the encounter at Pierce's house prepared him for the backlash.

“What, you don't think my men can handle it?”

The Soldier only stared at him again, while the small room of strike team members fell silent.

“Your unit knows the area. We need a perimeter to keep civilian forces out of the loop.” His explanation, delivered in an unimpressed monotone, wasn't enough to satisfy Rumlow.  
“We've been working with those two for months. I know how they think--”

“The mission calls for possible urban warfare tactics. These agents have and expertise in that area.” The men assigned directly beneath the Soldier started muttering to each other in Russian. They worked with him in the past, another reason why they had favor over Rumlow's team. They obeyed him because they experienced firsthand just what the Winter Soldier could do, and they had no intentions of provoking it like the hot headed American in front of them.

“And who polices them, huh?” The Soldier glared right through the bravado. Rumlow's words were like arsenic laced honey; he didn't give a damn about collateral damage, except for to his ego. All of this posturing wasted time, jeopardized the mission.

“I do.” The Soldier's monotone dropped dangerously. The chill in his voice went straight up the spines of the Russian agents, and their eyes turned to Rumlow with imploring desperation to stand down. Some even put their hands on their weapons, though they gave no indication as to which one of them was the threat. Finally, he scoffed and sat down.

\---------------

When Rogers' group resurfaced on SHIELD's radar in Washington, the teams immediately dispatched to intercept them around the highway leading out of the metro area. The Soldier took up station in a van staged to be waiting for off road assistance on an overpass. The barrel of his sniper rifle poked through camouflage in the back window, where he surveyed the perimeter through his scope.

“All teams in place,” a Russian voice crackled in his ear. “Target vehicle set to enter the Asset's range in ten minutes.” The Soldier registered the information subconsciously, but his attention was drawn to Rumlow's team when he came across them in his sweep. The police wagon they were using as cover attracted the attention of the real authorities, and several officers approached them in an alley. The Soldier watched as the strike team quickly outmatched them, savagely beating them down and getting them at gunpoint. More wasting time, more chances of exposing the operation before it had a chance to start. That's why the Soldier should be angry, but something else about it enrages him in a way he can't explain, that makes him grip the handle of his rifle nearly to the point of cracking.

“Tell Rumlow's team to stand down,” he said to his Russian handlers over the radio. He heard one of them frantically speaking English, telling Rumlow he needed to save it for later, but the brief flash of gunfire slipping through a silencer drew the Soldier's attention away. White hot instinct moved him to respond to the slumped body of the police officer more than orders. On the highway, the crack of his rifle would be mistaken for a car backfiring, but when the man next to Rumlow who shot the cop collapsed to the ground in the alley, half of his head missing, the message delivered by the Soldier couldn't have been clearer. Shocked silence buzzed in his ear for a few seconds before the Russian voice informed him as the target approached his rendezvous point. The mission replaced the anger, and the Soldier's mind blanked out again as he got out of the van. 

\---------------

What felt like years later, the Soldier found himself back in his vault, back in the chair he never remembered until they shoved him back into it. The scientists with different faces but the same white coats as always discussed how to snap him out of what looked like a catatonic state, but only felt that if he moved, the memories flooding back to him would split open his skull and escape.

As he held them in, Rumlow entered like a hurricane, but the Soldier barely noticed.

“Brock, they told you to wait for Pierce--”

“This doesn't fucking wait. He's not supposed to kill our people, is he?”

“He's programmed to optimize the mission. Your men made a mistake, and he adapted to it. Of all people, you should know HYDRA has no room for mistakes.” Whatever the Soldier's handlers thought about the death of the strike team member, all of them gave more thought to the fact that Rogers escaped. Rumlow brimmed with frustration himself; this made two times he put Captain America in a corner and let him get away. His whole body tensed with anger as he approached the Soldier.

“How long have you known this was Sergeant Barnes? We could have used that against Rogers weeks ago.”

That name again. That name echoing in the Soldier's mind, pulling things from the depths of his memories with all the finesse of meat hooks. He'd forgotten what his face looked like without the mask. The EKG monitoring his pulse spiked.

“We discuss that in a safer place, Rumlow.” The Soldier recognized the voice of one of the Russians. “He's to be addressed for what he is now.” Agitated footsteps followed, until the Soldier was vaguely aware of Rumlow standing in front of him. Whatever drug they were pumping into him through the IV on his arm kept him from reacting too strongly.

“Yeah. The Winter Soldier. A fucking fossil. HYDRA is about moving forward, but we're using an old man to do our dirty work.”

The fist of HYDRA, Zola called him, back when this started. Zola-- when the Soldier remembered it, a mix of fear and hatred swelled in his chest. More flashes passed him by-- operating tables, the buzz of saws. His breath slowly started to pick up pace.

“Agent Rumlow, don't provoke him. We need to keep him stable--”

“For Christ's sake, what's he gonna do? Looks like you already took his brain out.”

No. It was there, it _burned._ The Soldier's eyes dilated unnaturally, hidden behind a curtain of hair until Rumlow grabbed a fistful of it, forcing him upright. Hatred quickly overruled fear. The sensation felt too familiar, reminded him of men holding him down as doctors soldered metal onto his skin, as he struggled to escape the capsule where his screams of protest would freeze for decades.

“Won't be much use for you once we own everything. HYDRA isn't going to need a politician's fucking dancing puppet when we're done.”

The Soldier recalled men dragging him from a cell full of other army officers. _Hail HYDRA,_ they said when they strapped him to a table in Zola's office. _Fight back, Buck,_ he'd told himself then. Told himself in the present, without realizing it. When Rumlow dared to get in his face, the Soldier's eyes suddenly focused back to crystal clear vision. His head reared back in Rumlow's grip before he slammed it forward against Rumlow's face. The crack made him let go of the Soldier's head, and set off a chain reaction in the vault. His handlers and doctors all scrambled to contain the outbursts they've seen before, but they weren't as fast as him. The Soldier lurched forward from his chair and lunged for Rumlow. Without hesitation he clenched his metal fist and rounded a hard punch into Rumlow's stomach, sending him flying across the room and crashing into some medical equipment. His own voice coaxes him onward again, less controlled than last time. _Finish the job. Tear out his throat._

Before the Soldier could respond to his own orders, his handlers dogpiled him to the ground, and one of the doctors plunged a needle full of sedatives into his bare neck. As they pulled him back to the chair, Rumlow struggled to get to his feet. He failed the first few times, and while he tried to curse, he instead violently threw up onto the floor. As the drugs overtook the Soldier, he heard chatter about possible internal bleeding, official reprimands, and demands for Rumlow to leave and clean himself up before Pierce arrived. Rumlow scowled and ignored all but the last of of his orders from scientists who held no power over him, but as he left, he swore he saw the Soldier smirking at him. Then, Rumlow finally felt the cold of winter chilling his spine. He'd never risk frostbite again.


End file.
